


The Revan Files: KoToR Practice Writings

by OrderOfRevan



Series: The Knights of the Old Republic [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Shortform Fiction, Tags to be added as needed, practice drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 11:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8159852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrderOfRevan/pseuds/OrderOfRevan
Summary: A collection of pieces I've done in preparation for writing the KoToR, as well as other pieces in the general mythos I've developed in my head for Revan. I'll provide a short summary of what each piece is before the piece itself so you know if you want to read it or not.





	1. Bastila

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is a bit I wrote back in probably about April or late March. It was originally posted on another account, so if it looks somewhat familiar, that's why.
> 
> It's about Revan's capture from Bastila's point of view and is not completely canon compliant.

The flagship hummed silently under her feet, but out in the depths of space it was difficult to feel the Living Force around her. Everything felt cold and heavy, though charged with a current of electricity laced with hatred. It felt like balancing on a ledge overlooking the yawning abyss of Couruscant; behind her lay safety and certainty while one misstep would send her careening into a darkness from whence she could not return. 

Falling was a real risk, especially pressed against one of the terminals, huddled against the cold metal inches from the body of a Jedi she had grown up with, trained with, all her life. She could hear the thud of heavy metal soles against the planks of the bridge, the rasping of slow, deliberate breaths through the filter of a mask, and the hum of a lightsaber, burning crimson in her memory. 

“You are aware,” drawled the voice of the Dark Lord from somewhere above her and to her left, “that I can still sense you? There is no way you can hide from me, Bastila Shan. And when I find you…” 

The footsteps ceased, making the sound of her heart pounding in her ears sound cacophonous. She could feel him reaching out with his senses, like dark tendrils of consciousness groping and grasping for something to hold onto, but she would give him no satisfaction. 

Bastila Shan would not give up the element of surprise. 

“When I find you…” The Sith continued in his deep, calm voice, resuming pacing like a restless predator. “I’ve reserved a special fate for you, young Jedi. I’m not going to kill you.” 

She could feel his intent clawing at her skin, malice raising the hairs on her neck as the air grew even colder, choked with his hatred. Only the voice inside of her, small and calm, kept her centered on her Jedi training, the peaceful eye of a swirling torrent of emotion. 

“Killing you would be a waste, and though I know your foolish Masters taught you that I am a monster, I am not wasteful, Bastila Shan.” He stopped, paces from her, close enough that she could feel his presence at her back. He loomed like a shadow, like a behemoth, the namesake of his flagship. “I’m going to make you see reason, Jedi. I was blind once, like you…”

In her mind’s eye, she pictured the Jedi she had known briefly as a girl, smiling and rebellious. That Jedi swayed nearly everyone he met to his way of thinking, that Jedi spoke about nobility and the pursuit of justice for the weakest members of the Republic. He was nearly impossible to reconcile with the being of darkness at her back. 

Her Masters had always told her that the Dark Side was a corrosive force never to be trifled with, that it could make monsters of the greatest heroes the galaxy had ever known. She had always understood from an academic perspective what that had meant, growing up in the shadows cast by Exar Kun and Revan, but until that moment Bastila wasn’t entirely certain she really  **_knew_ ** what they meant. 

Being in his presence now was choking, overwhelming, in a way she hadn’t anticipated and hadn’t been prepared for. Bastila didn’t know if she ever could have been prepared to face a Sith, not when the bodies of her friends littered the bridge of the Behemoth and she could feel hopelessness intrude on her thoughts like a sickness. 

“I can feel your fear, but you don’t have to try to suppress it, Bastila Shan.” The Sith continued, the hum of his saber growing so loud that her pulse seemed to synchronize with it. “Embrace your fear, your anger. They’re powerful tools, if you know how to use them. You would be an asset… You are a rare person. Too  **_special_ ** for the Jedi to waste.” 

His footsteps stopped, the heat from the air leeched by his presence enough of a warning for her to look up to find him looming over the terminal and staring down at her. She was reminded again of how terrible it was to face an opponent who didn’t have a face when her eyes met nothing but her own pale reflection in a black visor. 

“There you are, Bastila,” he said in a voice that was almost playfully chiding. “It’s not particularly nice to hide from your future Master.” 

“I’ll never serve you,” she hissed through clenched teeth, dashing away from the terminal, away from him, only to spin and face him again. “I’ll die before I give in to you, Revan.” 

With a whoosh and a hum, Bastila ignited her lightsaber, the yellow of the blade reflecting off the tiles of the floor. She stared at him, trying to quell the anger that rose in her breast as she stared upon him. Attacking him in rage would give him what he wanted, and right now, not giving in was all that she cared about. 

“Stubborn,” he hissed. “But it doesn’t matter. I’ve broken Jedi older and wiser than you. I know how to peer into your mind…” His lightsaber arced into the terminal where she had stood only moments before, sending sparks flying, a demonstration of his power. 

“I can dismantle you…” Revan advanced on her, the black shadow that stretched from the feet of the Jedi Order. 

“Rebuild you in my image until you wonder what you ever saw in the Light. But don’t worry… you’ll learn how to use the pain I inflict… You’ll learn how liberating this can be.” He outstretched his left hand, and Bastila felt his power grasp her so firmly it nearly bruised as it dragged her forward, though she resisted with all her might. 

“They didn’t send you prepared, Bastila Shan. They sent you to die. I am the Dark Lord of the Sith. I am Darth Revan.” Bastila momentarily struggled with her terror as she drew ever closer, the absolute certainty in his voice unnerving her more than any furious outburst could have. 

“But I am merciful, and if you bow to me…” He began to force her to her knees, staring down at her from a dizzying height. “Then the entire world will throw itself at your feet. You never have to be someone else’s puppet again.” 

“You’re lying,” she hissed through clenched teeth, pushing back at him while he monologued, enough to catch him off guard and break his hold. “I know what you are,  **_Sith_ ** .”

“Is that all the Jedi taught you?” he said with a belabored sigh, launching himself at her to try to bring his blade down on her wrist, a move she barely sidestepped.

“You don’t know the power that the Dark Side offers, but you…”  Another slash came down near her arm, which she was forced to parry with one blade of her saberstaff. 

“Will..” Bastila twisted her body to avoid a glancing blow as he leaped into the air, arching gracefully over her head. 

“Learn!” She spun, turning to face him as he charged her again, herding her away from the front of the Bridge toward the wall, where he could corner her. 

Bastila glanced around frantically when she could spare him her attention, looking for a way out. If he backed her against that wall, he would incapacitate her and drag her from this ship alive, a fate worse than that her friends had already met. They were one with the Force, and Darth Revan couldn’t harm them now, but here on the bridge, the threat he presented to her was still very real. 

He was right in one thing and one thing alone -- Jedi far older and wiser than her had cracked underneath his torture and fallen at his feet to beg his mercy and pledge their allegiance to his cause. 

Suddenly, it occurred to Bastila that there was yet one way to freedom, perhaps one way to defeat him and bring him to his knees. She felt the Force stir in her, calmness like she had never felt before falling over her like a shroud as she outstretched one hand to push him back and away from her. If she could just gain some ground--!

Revan went flying, but so did Bastila as a sudden fiery blast shook the ship beneath her feet and sent her tumbling to the ground. The bridge exploded with orange and red light, claxons blazing in the distance as the light flickered and smoke nearly choked her. It took several moments and another volley of fire on the bridge until the ship stopped shaking and the emergency generators switched on the auxiliary lights. 

The sudden heat after the cold of Revan’s presence was disorienting enough even  without the chaos that she had to use the wall to brace herself as she stood. It took her several minutes to process what had happened as she stared out into the dimly lit bridge of the mighty Behemoth, listening to the distant alarms blaring and a rasping noise that she couldn't quite place until her eyes fell upon the prone body of the Dark Lord buried underneath two flaming durasteel beams. 

Momentarily panicked, it took Bastila another moment before she could center herself and suffocate the flames using the Force, moving the beams away from him with her mind. His breathing was growing progressively more shallow, and she could see blood pooling from some unknown point beneath his body. 

Though still unstable, Bastila rushed forward to throw herself to her knees at his side. His head turned, and she sensed he was looking at her, though he didn’t seem to be able to speak or she suspected he wouldn’t have shut up. Her certainly hadn’t stopped talking the entire time she had been here. 

“I didn’t come all this way to capture you,” Bastila said, searching for the clasps of his mask so she could better see the face of her patient, “just for you to die on me now!” 

She found the release and nearly tossed the mask into the rubble beside her, hesitating a moment before tucking it gingerly into the folds of her robes, though she wasn’t certain what compelled her to keep it. She had never taken a trophy before, but for some reason, leaving his mask here on the bridge didn’t feel right. Bastila refused to ignore such an instinct, even if it made no sense to her. 

Besides, she would have plenty of time to puzzle over it later.

Finally, she could look upon the face of her patient and had to express… a certain amount of surprise at his appearance. With shaking hands, she soothed dark strands away from a face that looked younger than she had expected, perhaps because she had always been taught that the Dark Side aged and distorted. 

He seemed to flinch at her touch, fierce yellow eyes that had seemed so intent upon staring her down a moment before looking away and losing focus. It was then that Bastila realized that he was likely in far worse shape than she thought, and closed her eyes, placing his head in her lap, reaching for the Force, opening herself up to it. She let it flow through her, the power slowly mending his wounds. He still went limp in her arms, and though she felt him stabilize… the coldness she always felt in his presence faded away to be replaced by empty numbness. 

Opening her eyes, Bastila stared into the face of a man who held the flicker of life within his breast, but no will to live. His eyes were blank, empty, devoid of anything at all, though he drew breath steadily through his lungs.

Fear spread through Bastila like a sickness, but she fought it off, grit her teeth, and then called on the Force once more for strength, somehow managing to sling Revan’s arm over her shoulder so that she could drag him from the wreckage of his flagship. 

“You’re impossible,” she muttered to the comatose Sith Lord. “But if I can just get you to Dantooine…” 

She could get him to Master Vandar and Master Vrook. She could get him to someone who had the skill and the energy to repair his damaged mind and maybe… Maybe make it possible for them to find out where the Sith armies came from. Maybe Revan could be rehabilitated… 

She tried not to get her hopes up as she dragged him across the bridge toward the exit, glancing back her once last time to see the Leviathan, Malak’s flagship, looming in the bridge window like a promise. She could sense the Sith Apprentice, somewhere in the distance, smug and secure in his victory. 

* * *

There were two people standing on either side of her, both of them shorter than her, though she had the impression they were both very tall.

The woman on her left, who she didn’t recognize, had a face smattered with a thousand freckles, her pale blue eyes steely and stern, though was something almost soft and patient about her. She was dressed in the brown robes of a Jedi Knight. 

The man on her right was Malak, except his face wasn’t cold and his eyes weren’t black. He was smiling a grin so wide and joyful that it split his face in two, his bright eyes glimmering with humor, hope, and an edge of something sharp. 

“We’re finally making a difference,” Malak said with a laugh that shook his shoulders. “I can’t believe it. After all this time… finally they listen to us!” 

“I always forget how easily excitable you are,” said a voice that Bastila barely recognized -- Revan, though she had no idea where the noise was coming from. “I’ve known you since we were both four years old. You think I would be used to it by now.” 

“How can you forget how excitable he is? He’s as enthusiastic as an akk puppy.” The woman glanced toward both of them, a bit of amusement written on her face. “Alek-- sorry, Malak-- never does anything halfway. He never has. Even I know that.”

“Maybe you just have a better memory?” Malak was still smiling, his hand slapping open palmed against her back. “ **_General_ ** Revan has to write everything down so he doesn’t forget like some kind of senile old man.” 

Bastila’s stomach lurched and she felt herself growing smaller as she was pushed back and away from the scene violently. She was watching it now, out of body, feeling nauseous as she watched Revan turn on her, Malak and the woman melting away into a bizarre, congealed mass of color at his feet. 

**_“You!”_ **

His voice echoed across the distorted landscape and his eyes, which had been dark before, morphed into bright and staring yellow. Lightning crackled from his fingertips as he advanced on her, and she stumbled backwards, trying to remember what it felt like to have a body, more frightened than she could ever remember being, even on the Bridge of the Behemoth. 

“Stop!” She cried as he advanced, but Darth Revan did not stop, reaching out toward her with his hands, his fingers curved like claws as the world about her grew darker. 

They reached for her neck, sharpening, brightening, until they were white like bone and as long and deadly as daggers. Bastila screamed as they pierced her flesh, shooting up from where she sat, her heart pounding into the silence of the dark escape pod. 

The  _ escape pod _ … 

Relief, followed by a profound sense of peace, flooded her as she stared at the ceiling. A dream. It was a dream. Nothing more than a figment of her imagination, her very active imagination, a product of a mind under duress.  

In the darkness, she could hear Revan’s shallow breathing, a quiet undercurrent to the beeping of the navigation equipment and the homing beacon. She barely remembered pulling the massive body of the prone Sith Lord into the escape pod and jettisoning it into space, and calling the Jedi over her holocommunicator was a foggy recollection at best, but at least she knew she had. 

Bastila looked toward Revan, who she had propped against one of the walls. He lay there, unmoving, far different from the man in the strange dream she’d just had. Without lightning arcing from his fingertips or eyes glowing like yellow pinpricks against a storm of dark energy, he looked almost normal. Revan was actually rather tall and pale, and his black hair clung to sweaty skin, which made him look thin and frail in the dim green light of the escape pod. 

It was only when her mind drifted as she continued to stare at him that she realized she felt a vague throbbing at the base of her neck and in the center of her chest. She couldn’t place the feeling, a sensation that was as foreign to her body as sunlight beating against her skin or the wind tousling her hair in the dimness of the pod. It felt like… pain. Not physical but emotional, a phantom sadness that planted itself like a seed inside of her and grew until she could trace its source...

With horror, she recoiled, her back thudding against the metal casing of the escape pod, her hands scrabbling for something to hold onto.

Her body moved as far away from the prone Sith as it possibly could manage, but the distance didn’t do anything to diminish the throbbing in her chest -- an emotion that  _ didn’t belong to her _ . 

“What have you done?” She hissed at herself, watching the brow of the comatose Revan furrow with the phantom of frustration and confusion. “Bastila, you fool--”

The emotional feedback began to fade as Revan slumped against the wall, more limp than he had been moments ago, but the moment of strange emotional lucidity was enough for Bastila to realize what had happened on the bridge of the Behemoth. Calming her breathing, she closed her eyes and forced herself to relax, placing herself in a state of meditation for a long, silent moment that could have stretched on for hours. 

Though the connection was dead now, implying there was nothing much left in Revan’s mind for her to feel, Bastila knew what she had experienced. She had felt other such bonds before, though none with such lucid intensity. 

Perhaps it was because the other bonds had occurred naturally, over time and with people she trusted, but something felt different about this bond. It went deep, deeper than she was truly comfortable with, and had likely formed when she had reached into his mind to try to save him, to bring his consciousness back to the surface. Seeing him in a pool of his own blood, Bastila had truly feared in that moment that he had passed on and gone to Chaos. She had reached  **_into_ ** him to save him, and when she had… 

She had forged a Bond between them, one made of the Force itself, linking them for all time. 

The mask tucked into her robes felt as if it might drag her into the floor. 

Bastila stared at Revan for a long time after that, as if looking at him and willing the bond away would make it dissolve. Even though she couldn't feel it right now, she knew it lay in wait so that when he was healed, their minds would be connected again. The prospect terrified her -- tied to the Dark Lord, who could very possibly use their link to drag her down to the Dark Side. It occurred to her that her only hope may be the Jedi Council. 

She could only pray they could sever the bond. 

Another silent eternity passed, leaving Bastila alone with a man who was little more than a corpse and her own thoughts. Eventually, the humming of the pod grew deafening, and she had withdraw within herself in order to pass the time, using the Force to shield her from the outside world. 

How much time passed like this, she did not know, she was only aware when the small escape pod lurched in the gravity of a tractor beam. She looked out the porthole, the sense of relief that washed over her almost tangible when she saw the large Hammerhead Class Cruiser in the distance. Hopefully, there was a Jedi upon it, someone who could help her with Revan, someone who could help convince the Captain to take the ship to Dantooine. Even if there wasn’t however, having the comatose Dark Lord of the Sith as her prisoner was guaranteed to get her almost anything she wanted. 

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” she told the man as the pod scraped to a stop in the cruiser’s docking bay. “If you live, I hope you end up a prisoner for the rest of your life, you nuisance.” 

She hoisted the giant man over one of her shoulders, using the Force to blast the door of the pod open so that she could descend into the docking bay without incident. A group of soldiers were assembled in wait for her, the XO, possibly, standing at their head, her arms clasped behind her back. 

“Master Jedi,” the woman said, severe, tall and blond. “I… We weren’t expecting you to have… A… uh… Prisoner.”  

“Quite the grasp of the obvious you have,” Bastila snapped, quickly reigning her her emotional response with a deep sigh. “I’m… sorry. It’s been a long few days. I need this man placed in the medical bay immediately and prepped for transport to Dantooine.” 

The soldiers looked between each other, wary, as their eyes fell upon the dark shape draped over her shoulder like a shawl. If they seemed wary, or even afraid, she couldn't blame them -- his silhouette alone was infamous in the Republic now. 

“Should we… does he need to be restrained?” The XO looked between Bastila and her prisoner as if she were eyeing up an activated thermal detonator. 

“He’s comatose,” Bastila said, transferring him to the shoulder of two soldiers, who sagged under a weight they were not quite prepared for. “Change his clothes, bandage any wounds that he might still have, and make sure his life signs are monitored.” 

The soldiers exchanged a glance, but she knew that her orders would be followed as they shuffled away, supporting the Dark Lord between them. Bastila watched them go, feeling a sense of relief wash over her when Revan was finally out of her sight. She really had been carrying him around like a weight in more than just the physical sense. 

“Master Jedi?” The XO asked, and Bastila nearly started as she realized she could feel the presence of the other woman at her side. “Do you need to rest?” 

Bastila breathed a soft sigh of relief, and then nodded. “Yes, please. I’ve had a long few days and I need to rest before meeting with the Council.”

“I’ll have you escorted to one of the cabins,” the other woman replied, motioning to one of the soldiers still in attendance. “I hope you don’t mind if we post guards outside his door. I trust you that he won’t do anything, but we can’t be too careful.”

“I understand,” Bastila assured her. “Please, send someone to wake me when we reach Dantooine.” 

The XO assured her it would be done, though for Bastila’s part, she was simply grateful that she could soon slip into a blessedly dreamless sleep. 

* * *

 

Dantooine was quiet, sublimely peaceful in a way that did Bastila good after weeks in space. It was rural, isolated, and filled with the soothing presence of other Jedi, younglings and Knights alike. The Agricultural Corp had a strong presence here, of course, which meant plenty of fresh vegetables and fruit in the gardens of the conclave. 

Everything here felt alive, and  so she had been able to remove her mind from the traumatic experiences of the Behemoth, to heal and begin to process everything that had occurred. She would be asked to give her report on the events leading up to Darth Revan’s capture just as soon as Master Vandar and the others felt she was prepared to. Bastila was grateful for their Jedi patience, for the fact that they were giving her the much needed time to recover, but she was wary about what it meant for their prisoner. 

She had felt weak with gratitude the moment that the Dark Lord had been removed from the Republic ship by means of a gurney carried by two floating medical droids. Now, that relief and gratitude were replaced by the sense that something was horribly wrong with him if they had this sort of time to wait on her own recovery. 

She found out exactly what it was the day Master Dorak came to fetch her from the gardens, where she had been meditating, attempting to seek guidance from the Force. Bastila had no idea what the Jedi Council would have her do next now that Revan had been subdued, especially as Malak was still a threat. She had long since realized that Revan might be the key to stopping his apprentice, even as her days on Dantooine had melted into weeks, but how would they use Revan if he still had not woken from his sleep? 

“You did well,” Master Dorak said, leading her through the gardens toward the Council Chamber, his fingers laced together behind his back. “I believe I speak for the Council when I say so. I may simply be the Chief Archivist here, but you faced insurmountable odds to bring us the Dark Lord… alive.” 

“I let the Force guide me,” Bastila replied, though she had not felt so on the bridge of that ship. “In retrospect, it’s guidance was the only reason I was able to pull him from the wreckage after… After Malak fired upon us.” 

Master Dorak nodded grimly, but for the time being said nothing more. It reminded Bastila of why she liked him in the first place. When it came to tact, Master Dorak knew when not to push, preferable to Master Vrook or even Master Vandar, who had a way of needling until he got a response, even if he did so gently. 

They continued on in companionable silence until they reached the doors of the Council Chamber, when Dorak announced their presence by speaking a greeting to the other three Masters assembled. Bastila walked in after him, looking at each of the Jedi Masters in turn, her eyes freezing on the prone form in the middle of the room -- Revan, dressed in simple robes instead of the attire he’d adopted as the Dark Lord. He looked paler than she remembered him looking on the bridge, but the scrapes and burns that had been there at the time had all but vanished, leading Bastila to believe that the Masters had healed the wounds she couldn't. 

She tore her eyes from Revan to look back at the Masters, specifically Master Vandar, who sat before her in one of the circular chairs the council used while they discussed their business. He was leaning forward, his large, grey-green eyes focused solely on her, sail-like ears twitching as she bowed and greeted him and the other Masters in turn. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we brought you here,” Master Zhar said as Master Dorak took his seat beside them. “Truthfully, Bastila, we wanted to congratulate you on your efforts and inquire after your well-being. You are nearly the only survivor of a terrible event that claimed the lives of all your companions.” 

Master Zhar did not need to affect concern, his manner gentle, as it had always been. He was smiling at her, the look on his yellow face reassuring, and she sensed he was trying to calm and comfort her, should she need it. That little ability of his was the reason he had been given jurisdiction over the training of Dantooine’s Younglings, along with his remarkable patience and his vast wealth of knowledge. 

“I’m… not fine,” Bastila admitted, knowing that she couldn't mask her feelings from the Mastesrs. “Recovering has been a slow process, but I’m much better than I was when I arrived.” 

Master Zhar smiled, and then seemed to turn the floor over to Masters Vrook and Vandar, who both looked a great deal more grim-faced than their companions. Thankfully, it was Master Vandar who spoke first, staring at her from directly over Revan’s body, the Bantha in the room. 

“Young Bastila,” said the old alien, leaning forward in his seat, his hands clutching his staff tightly. “I am afraid we must ask you to speak about your experiences upon the Behemoth in more detail.” 

As usual, he was patient, and Bastila sighed deeply and nodded, wavering on the subject of the Force Bond for a moment. “We fought on the bridge of his flagship, and I… I am not certain that I could have beaten him if Malak had not chosen to fire upon us.” Bastila stood tall, forcing the words from her mouth as she grounded herself with the Force. “He was badly wounded, and I attempted to heal the worst of his wounds in order to transport him here and bring him before you.”    
For a half a second, she hesitated, feeling the heavy gaze of each Master upon her as she bowed her head to search for the words. Communicating had never really been her strong suit, but in this case, it was necessary that they know exactly what had transpired so that they could make the correct decision. 

_ There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.  _

“When I healed him, I reached into his mind to try to knit him back together. Everything seemed fine at first, but... I sensed… On the escape pod, I had a dream. It was… It was a shared dream, I believe,” Bastila’s eyes fell to Revan, instead of the searching eyes of the Masters. “I believe that a Force Bond was forged between us the moment I healed him. I think… Revan and I are connected.” 

Connected enough that she had his mask hidden in her room underneath her mattress, wrapped in a heavy piece of cloth, something she couldn't bring herself to tell the Council even now, as they exchanged concerned glances.  

“This is most troubling,” Master Vandar said after what seemed like an eternity of shared glances and silent deliberation. “I am afraid that, once such a bond is forged, there nothing that can be done to sever it, save death.” 

Bastila could not help the terror that suddenly raced through her at the prospect of being bound mentally to the Dark Lord until one of them died. Still, she tried to remain standing tall, to not show or succumb to the fear that crept slowly from the back of her neck, threatening to paralyze her. 

“If anything, this makes our next action more clear,” Master Vrook said, his eyes boring into the comatose Lord of the Sith, darker and angrier than one would expect from a member of the Jedi Council. “The Force Bond is only dangerous if Revan remains Revan. If we neutralize his threat, sever his connection to the Force, he is no longer a threat to our Order or to the Galaxy.” 

“We both know it is not so simple,” Master Zhar said, making Bastila feel as though she were stuck in the middle of a very old argument, perhaps the same argument that had consumed the last weeks before she had been summoned. “He is the only one who knows the location of Malak’s factory. We need him, with his mind intact, in order to defeat the Sith.” 

“Which is why I suggested erasing his mind completely and using a Jedi to draw the memories from him,” Master Vrook said, his voice as steely as always. “He can’t be a threat to us if we rebuild him, make him loyal to the Republic. Severing his tie to the Force neutralizes the rest of the threat he represents.” Vrook paused and snorted. “We both know that he isn’t waking up unless we fix the damage to his mind.” 

“You… want to erase his mind?” Bastila asked without thinking, earning the attention of four pairs of eyes, three of which had seemingly forgotten her presence, if their look of surprise was any indication. 

“Unfortunately, it may be the only way to stop the Sith,” Master Vandar said, bowing his head and closing his eyes -- she could feel his remorse. “We must use Revan against his own army, and we do not have the time or resources to try to redeem him, not after everything we have lost in the war. Erasing his mind… may be our only hope.”

Swallowing thickly, Bastila let her eyes drift between Vandar and the prone Sith Lord in the center of the room. Her mind raced with a million possibilities, weighted down by the gravity of what they were suggesting. Sometimes, such things were necessary in the pursuit of balance and freedom, she thought, recalling stories of  how Nomi Sunrider had torn Ulic Qel-Droma’s connection to the Force from him in order to stop the revival of the Sith. 

Horrible though the concept may be, Revan would never help them if they simply healed and restrained him, even if he offered simply to see Malak pay for his betrayal. He was dangerous -- evil, and really, who was she to question the wisdom of the Jedi Council when she had felt the coldness of his hatred first hand? 

And yet, Bastila felt something inside her stir, something she recognized as the pull of the Force, small and quiet in the back of her mind. Swallowing again, Bastila kept her eyes glued on Revan as she battled with the feeling, torn between her fear and the certainty of the destiny that called to her. 

“Use me,” Bastila said at last, silencing the Council, who had been debating amongst themselves the entire time. 

They all looked at her, confused, so Bastila drew a shuddering breath and clarified, taking a step toward them -- and toward Revan. “Use me to draw out his memories. We have a Force Bond, so whatever he knows, I’ll share.” 

The Council members exchanged wary glances, Master Dorak, especially, looking concerned, but Bastila wouldn't accept “no” for an answer, not this time. The Force was calling her to do this. It was clear to her now that this was what she was meant to do, that it was her destiny, the reason any of this had happened in the first place. “Another Jedi wouldn't have that advantage, even if they have more experience. Please, listen to me -- We both know I’m the only one who has any real chance at succeeding.” 

Everything stood in the balance for one terrible second, a second in which anything could have happened, but at last the tension seemed to drain from the room and all the Masters seemed to look older than she had ever remembered. After facing Revan and coming to understand the nature of the Sith, Bastila thought she finally understood how the years could wear on a Jedi, how wars and time could leave them nothing but a quick. The galaxy’s decisions should not have to be placed on the shoulders of so small a group. 

“Very well,” Master Vandar said at long last, standing and walking toward the Sith Lord. “I suspect you are correct, young Bastila. You very well may be this galaxy’s last hope.” 

Behind him, the other three Masters converged on Darth Revan, who seemed somehow cold and defiant despite his omnipresent stillness. Before him, the Masters gathered, and of them, only Vrook seemed without regret on his heavily lined face. Bastila understood that a man’s mind, his very identity, was being sacrificed for the sake of the galaxy, but one man was perhaps a very small price to pay for the trillions of lives that were still at risk. 

Bastila stood, transfixed, as the four Masters stood over the former Dark Lord of the Sith, their heads bowed as they began to glow a soft grey. Before them, Revan began to reflect the same glow, his stillness breaking a half a moment later as his hands clawed at the material of the platform on which he had been been laid, eyes staring at the domed ceiling of the Council Chamber as his mouth fell open in a silent scream. The Darkness seemed to rip its way from him in a stream of orange and red, color returning to his features even as his yellow eyes darkened to brown, losing their sharpness in the process, his body going limp and prone once more. 

Through their Bond, Bastila could sense fear, and then… nothing, though his presence still throbbed quietly at the back of her mind, like a heartbeat. 

Still, he glowed, his features slowly easing into the expression of a man who was sleeping. He looked healthier than before, almost… normal, breathing evenly as the glow on his body faded after another few minutes and the Jedi Masters stepped away, looking drained and exhausted. Bastila couldn't help but feel like destroying and rebuilding a man should have taken longer, but she had no place to object as she stared at her future charge. 

“He is a soldier now,” said Master Dorak, who had not spoken since he had come to fetch her. “His name is Cassus Jaycen, and he enlisted two years ago to help the Republc fight Darth Revan. He was born on Deralia. He is 38 years old and an only child.” 

Bastila couldn’t think of words that felt appropriate, so she simply nodded, still staring at the former Dark Lord of the Sith, who looked so peaceful now that he had returned to his uncorrupted state. She recalled the charismatic young man who so many had admired, the young man who had gone off to fight the Mandolorians. 

“He will be assigned to your command,” Master Vrook said. “We’ll work out the details with Republic Command. They will not be aware of his identity -- we must not alert the galaxy to our plans. This is a very delicate situation.” 

Looking up into the faces of her Masters, Bastila was about to speak, but was quieted by the intense look in Master Vandar’s eyes. 

“Bastila,” he said softly, looking at her so intently that she suddenly felt she was the only person in the room. “You must keep his identity a secret. No one must know who he is. If they knew, not only would the mission be endangered, but both of your lives, as well. For the sake of us all, we are the only ones who can know that Cassus Jaycen was the Dark Lord of the Sith.” 

She nodded, and though she understood, she couldn't help but feel as though she had just agreed to keep the world’s loneliest secret. 


	2. Hurdle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alek awaits the return of the friend. 
> 
> Originally, when coming up with heacdanon about the Mandalorian Wars, I tried to keep Revan's name as ambiguous as canon does, but it doesn't quite work for a novel. 
> 
> Jorren Ollus is my created name for Star Wars. I thought it sounded like a relatively average name for a man who describes himself as relatively average.

Squint was waiting in the spaceport almost nervously, pacing the width of the massive hallway, though onlookers gave him a wide berth. 

Here on Coruscant, the civilians were used to the Jedi, though much of the rest of the Galaxy thought they were little more than a myth. Everyone here knew what his reddish-brown robes meant, and a few could even spot the seemingly inconspicuous cylinder of metal at his side. It was by virtue of these features alone that he was given his space, something that he was grateful for -- Squint liked crowds, but right now, he was waiting for someone, and he couldn’t be bothered with conversation. 

It was only when he saw another Jedi through the crowd that anything other than his boots made noise. Laughing, he almost jolted forward, reaching out to clasp the other Jedi on the back, feeling the man stumble as he braced himself against Squint’s shoulder, a wide smile spreading across his angular features. 

“Alek.” 

“How’s Alderaan?” Squint asked as he pulled away, immediately setting off through the crowd. “I won’t ask if your mission was successful. They’d only let you come back if you’d actually convinced the noble houses to do their jobs.”

“Cold,” said the Jedi as he pulled his hood down, running a hand through his dark hair. “The Organas keep their estate in the mountains, and it’s spring now, which means nothing will thaw for another month.” He heaved a sigh, glancing toward Squint, his brows furrowing into a dark line. “Did you hear about Suurja?” 

“Two minutes, Jorren, and you’re already talking about Suurja,” Squint glanced toward his friend, smiling in spite of the severe tone of his voice. Heaving a sigh, he mussed his short, black hair, brow furrowing deeply. “Have you been thinking about it this entire time?” 

“Since I heard.” Jorren’s expression had already grown dark. “I’m sure the Council is taking their sweet time deliberating about whether or not to get involved.”

Squint didn’t immediately answer, which Jorren seemed relatively content with. 

Honestly, he just wasn’t sure what to say or how to explain to Jorren what the Jedi Council had ultimately decided. He’d spent the last week waiting for Jorren’s return deep in meditation, attempting to come to peace with their decision, or locked deep in discussion with former Creche Master, Kae. She only served to exacerbate his worry and shake his trust in the Jedi Council’s judgement, not that it had ever been that strong in the first place. 

No matter how much he meditated, the deep sense of disquiet remained deep in his chest. He was so certain that the Masters were wrong, and that Jorren would agree with him, but he wasn’t sure what could be done. 

“They’ve already decided,” Squint said at last as they approached the speeder that would take them to the Jedi Temple. “Grandmaster Tokare had a vision that entering the War would bring the Order to the brink of destruction, and cause the Galaxy great suffering.” 

Anger rippled across Jorren’s features, but he reigned it in relatively easily, with the practice of a Jedi with a lifetime of experience in controlling his emotions. “I wonder what he thinks not entering the war will cause?” 

“I don’t know,” Squint admitted. “I tried asking the Council about it myself, but they just talk about the way the Force works mysteriously and how I was too young to understand.” 

He watched as Jorren’s eyes grew distant, the speeder lurching to life as the Droid behind the wheel ignored their conversation. “When will we be old enough?” He asked, his fingers strumming the side of the speeder. “We’re almost 30 years of age, and some of the members of the Council aren’t much older.” 

Jorren sighed, and Squint watched, sensing his friend’s troubled emotions. Empathy wasn’t his strong suit, but when it came to Jorren he could always tell. They had grown up together, after all, been inseparable since first being sorted into Dragon Clan.  

There was no Jorren without Alek, and no Alek without Jorren. 

“How can they let the people of the Galaxy suffer? Are they justifying this by saying that the Republic isn’t involved because these are just Outer Rim Worlds?” Jorren was staring out at Coruscant's skyscrapers, his fingers still tapping.  “Suurja supplies food to Taris. Surely they realize that the Mandalorian occupation of an agrarian world so close to a city one means an inevitable invasion of that world?” 

“A Republic Officer was there. There are negotiations to make Taris a member of the Republic,” Squint said. “I’m surprised they’re not sending you to help with the negotiations, but there’s already a Conclave on Taris. Draay and his Consulars and their padawans. I suppose they’d just use them if they needed Jedi Intervention.” 

“They don’t think I’m capable” Jorren admitted with a half smile. “How many times has Master Lamar called me arrogant? Or how many times have other members of the Council told me that I would reach my full potential if only I started acting how  **_they_ ** wanted me to?” He shook his head. “They wouldn’t give me a delicate mission. The places they send me, they send me in hopes that I’ll be humbled.” 

“But they call you the Jedi Knight with the most potential anyone has seen in decades,” Squint interjected. “That has to mean something.”

“It does,” Jorren said, pausing. “It means they don’t trust me.”

Squint didn’t say anything else, wondering if the reason they tolerated him was because he followed orders well. Some of his methods were unconventional, it was true, and he’d always been called bold, but seldom had they called him arrogant. Did they think they hadn’t noticed how he was always their second choice when they were truly down to their last hand? 

Perhaps they thought always playing second best to Jorren had humbled him.

He was beginning to realize that being the best had its own unique set of problems, however, problems that left Jorren a complicated mess of contradictions more tangled than the Jedi Code. 

“You seem tired,” Squint said as their speeder finally landed, the Jedi Temple looming before them and feeling oddly ominous. 

“I haven’t been sleeping well, not since receiving news of Suurja.” Jorren admitted. “I spent transit in meditation trying to figure out what to do.” He glanced toward Squint, his hand reaching down toward his lightsaber almost idly, stroking it as he thought. “Meet me tonight in the Archive. You know it’s abandoned most nights.” 

Jorren didn’t wait for an answer, walking away, his dark brown robes swirling behind him. 

Squint could already sense he was planning something, and he hoped against hope that their thoughts aligned once more as he thought of all the innocents suffering in the Outer Rim because of the Mandalorians. He thought of the fields burning on his own homeworld, now little more than a bombed out crater that the Mandalorians used to their leisure, and prayed that there wouldn’t be Suurjan Younglings brought here, their village names slapped on as a surname like an afterthought. 

In the end, though, Squint didn’t have much hope. 

This massacre couldn’t even be called a War, not when the Republic was making these Outer Rim Worlds fight back against a threat they couldn’t possibly defeat. 


	3. Romantic Think Piece

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever just want to write about your favorite character thinking about how much he loves his wife?
> 
> I sure do.

In his functional memory, which admittedly wasn’t very long, he’d never felt like this for a woman before. Even in his false memories littered in his mind, useless flashes of people who had never existed and places he had never been under those circumstances, contained no real memories of him  _ wanting _ a woman like this. 

He supposed the Jedi didn’t want to encourage him to have attachments, nevermind that a smuggler had probably had plenty of liaisons with a myriad of women, human and alien alike. Actually, he wasn’t even really sure that they had ever planned for him to regain his connection to the Force or just be lead around by Bastila by the nose, but even if they hadn’t, it didn’t change that their hollow memories were was illogical as they were uncomforting. 

He wondered if, beyond the omnipresent static in his mind, there had ever been someone else, a woman who made him feel this incomprehensibly weak. Everything about Bastila swept him up and left him breathless, and he wanted nothing more than to be close to her in  _ every _ sense, not just the physical one. 

Once, she had told him that she felt caught up with him just by being near, that his passion made her feel weaker and stronger all at once. It was so incongruous with the way he saw himself that at first he didn’t really understand, but now that he was really sparing time to think about his feelings, he was aware of the paradox in his own emotions. 

There was no way Bastila knew how he saw her, understood the way he felt swept up when he was with her, because he knew that she saw herself as less than she really was. She wouldn’t understand the faith he placed in her, would act embarrassed and obstinate if he dared express his feelings to her explicitly. 

Anything beyond the _ clandestine _ “I love you” would make her turn red and squirm, an idea he admittedly found pretty damn appealing. 

Part of Bastila’s charm was her inability to take anything, whether that thing be a joke or a compliment. It was endlessly endearing to watch her grow shy when he would get close to her in public, would give anyone else a hint that he saw her as anything more than a friend. The way she froze if he brushed his hand against hers or stood too close for too long, the way she finally unraveled when they were alone, leaning into his touches, sinking underneath his skin. 

He wanted to spend every moment of the rest of his life with her. 

Every second with Bastila was precious, the one truly good thing in his life. 

Everything else, if he let himself think about it too long, was despair. 

And why would it be anything else? 

He was Revan, and being Revan meant having this incredible past that he couldn’t remember, a past that still haunted his unconscious mind regardless. Making the choice to change, to be a different person than the man who had died aboard the Behemoth, didn’t mean that that man didn’t still exist somewhere inside of him. Sometimes, one of the Jedi would comment about something he had done being the same way he’d done it in the past. Even Carth made the comparisons, the easy charisma, the unmatched willfulness that bordered on  _ inhuman _ . 

He was sick of being compared to himself. 

Sometimes, late at night, he would find himself wishing he could just go back to not knowing, to being Cassus Jaylen. It had its complications, sure, but it was nothing compared to what he carried on his shoulders now, the weight of an entire Galaxy, not just once… But twice. 

Savior. 

Traitor.

Conqueror.    
Hero. 

Was it wrong to feel like he should be more than the sum of his parts? To want people to see the man he was, even if that man wasn’t Cassus and never really had been? Even if Cass had never existed except for in his mind? Even if, like Malak said, he really had been Revan all along, and that the Revan he was now was more like the Revan of the early Mandalorian Wars than the terrible phantom Darth Revan, whose hatred was so cold, he could feel it reflected in his subconscious even now? 

He wanted to be seen for who he was, not who he had been, or might be, not for any of his accomplishments. He just wanted to be… him. 

And Bastila…

_ Bastila _ . 

Somehow, she saw him. 

In quiet moments, when the static in his mind was replaced by the certainty of each second he drew breath, Bastila was always there. She had her own gravity, always drew him back in, the one place he could safely confess his fears and insecurities without fear of rejection, when they were alone and she held him close. 

He wanted her comfort, and to comfort her. In the moments she was small and uncertain, in the moments she hated herself for the decisions she’d made, for the path she’d followed, he could be there to remind her that she had come back. She had changed again, and no one could force her back to a place she didn’t want to go. 

It was then that he knew the fear she’d felt in the early days of  their acquaintanceship had vanished, replaced by confidence, by a sense of security that he could feel blooming between the two of them like a flower. It was strengthened each time they trusted one another, each time he broke down at her feet, each time she collapsed into his arms, and they pulled each other up and through the despair. 

Toward stability.

Because of love. 

And it was surreal, to say those words and mean them, to know he had probably never said them before in a romantic sense. He knew he had loved Malak because his chest ached with profound loss when he thought about the man rasping last words, about becoming nothing, wishing he could give Malak his life back. He knew he loved the Jedi Exile because he somehow managed to miss her presence even though he could barely remember her face, a smattering of freckles over pale skin. 

He loved neither of them like he loved Bastila. 

Bastila was grounding and _ real _ . There were no phantom conversations that he couldn’t remember upon waking, no half remembered moments of solidarity and deep affection, obscured by falsities and profound brain damage. Everything with Bastila was in the moment, everything with Bastila couldn’t possibly be taken from him.

Not like Malak and the Exile, two people whose ghosts he spent too much time chasing until his chest ached for the loss of them, though he didn’t know if he missed  _ them _ or just  _ knowing _ . It made him feel traitorous and wicked. 

The only two people who could tell him anything about himself and one of them was dead and the other missing. 

Both times, it was his fault. 

If he’d told Bastila his concerns, he already knew what she would say, patient as she was with him. She’d tell him he was a good man, that she had faith in him, that his heart had changed and that he clearly missed both Malak and the Exile. That he wanted to see them again because he wanted comfort and companionship, not just answers, and that it was okay to want both. 

He wanted her. 

In  _ every  _ way. 

To hold her and whisper to her how cherished she was, to make her feel how much he valued with every part of his body. Being with her, really  _ being _ with her, was a way to make her understand how much she was loved, how much he loved her, wanted her, cherished her for who she was. Bastila was essential to him now, he knew, no matter if it was drawing strength from her memory, or making her tremble beneath him, wild and unrestrained as she was with  _ only  _ him. 

The Jedi preached about peace and losing one’s attachments, but attachments were only unhealthy if you let them rule you, if you put your desire over someone’s freedom. His attachment to Bastila edified them both, made them stronger. Their love for one another had been their salvation, the thing that had brought them both back from the brink. 

For the love of her, he had stayed the course, had not given in to the despair of who he had been, and decided to be who he had  _ become _ . 

Revan could never repay her for that. 

But he could spend the rest of his life trying. 


	4. Defunct Ashes of War Draft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be the open of my upcoming (someday) fiction explaining how Revan and Bastila eventually marry each other (and the fall of the Korriban Sith Academy Revan founded), but I'm going to go in a slightly different direction with it now.
> 
> Still, I like the writing enough that I want to share it with you anyway.

The weeks directly after the Star Forge’s destruction were two of the most hectic weeks of Bastila’s life, and without a doubt two of the most trying. Not even in the pits of her despair on the Star Forge itself  had Bastila felt so worn down and ragged, had she put herself through such incredible duress, explaining to the Council her motivation while omitting the most telling bits of why she had been redeemed. 

Not for her own sake, Bastila told herself. No, it was for Revan’s. 

As critical as they were of her, she could still sense their pity, which she wanted very little, but was far preferable to the surgical way they treated Revan. As if he was a piece of meat to be strung along in front of the enemy at their leisure, as if he was not a thinking, feeling, sentient being. All the understanding she’d had for the Council’s actions had completely vanished the moment she realized that they had not really ever cared about his redemption, only what he could  _ do _ for them, how he could be made  _ useful _ after his failure. 

Perhaps she was the only one who had ever cared about saving the man. 

These were the thoughts that passed through her mind as she and Revan sat in perfect silence, awaiting the Council’s summons, their intent uncertain. 

The two of them said nothing, in fact, it was the first time they had seen each other since the day of the ceremony and the night before, when she had come to him and he had held her in his arms. Just the thought of that night, though nothing had  _ happened _ , made Bastila’s throat grow tight and made it difficult for her to make eye contact with him. 

She loved him, that was true, and she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind to him any longer, but there were still so many considerations -- whether or not it would be safe for  _ him _ for them to pursue a relationship was the primary in her mind, but there were others. Not being afraid of the man, being desperately in love with him, missing the embrace of his arms, didn’t mean it was wise for them to enter into something together. Bastila knew that he had brought her back with his intense but gentle love, that he had redeemed her, but she couldn’t help but feel like she might get in the way of his healing. 

That it might be better for them to part ways. 

As much as the thought made her heart hurt, she really couldn’t help but feel it would be the more responsible decision. 

Pulling away from her own thoughts once more, Bastila watched Revan, in part to prevent him from picking up on the intensity of her feelings. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel guilty when he already felt incredibly burdened by the weight of his own past, something she knew because no amount of joking could hide those feelings from her. 

Revan had changed little physically since she had last seen him, still pale and lanky and impossibly tall, all his features razor sharp with thin lips and a prominent, perfectly straight nose. His eyes and hair were both so dark that they somehow served to emphasize how pale he actually was, especially now that he had shaved his beard, serving to make him look far younger than she knew him to be. 

He was not a particularly attractive man, not at first. Bastila had only noticed his features because they were rather distinct, almost predatory, not because they were terribly handsome. However, what Revan lacked in physical appearance, he more than made up for with his eyes alone -- Dark, intense eyes, made more intense for his grim browline. 

Bastila had often found herself avoiding eye contact with him because a single look had the potential to convey more passionate emotion than she herself could ever be capable of, passion that sometimes rendered her weak. Revan’s eyes could freeze with a glance, they could convey warmth and affection, pain and punishment, or whatever else he wished with but a single flicker of his gaze. 

And then there was the other look, the look she had seen on his face exactly once, when he had kissed her, a look that had promised her passion, earnest, ardent, and intense as he did everything. Something she’d rather not think about in front of the Council, she bit her bottom lip and looked away from him. 

“You’ve been staring at me for a full two minutes,” said the man in question, drawing her eyes back to find him grinning, though his grins didn’t really mean he was pleased, as she had since discovered.

No, the grin was nothing more than a herald of an absolutely cringe-inducing joke. 

“I must look better in profile than I thought.” 

She frowned, but in spite of that, she could feel the blush creeping up her neck, glancing shyly away from him. From the corner of her eye, she saw the way his expression softened, turned gentle and fond, and remembered the way he had reached out to her on the Star Forge, pulling her back to him. 

“Bastila…” He started again, seeming like he wanted to say something, though she couldn’t meet his eyes to try to read his expression. “How… How have you been holding up?” 

Carefully, she looked back toward him, finding him looking... Well, honestly, he looked very tired, more tired than she had seen him look all but once, that night she had come to see him, the night before the award ceremony. He had joked, then, about how no man needed two Crosses of Glory, but there had been circles so dark underneath his eyes that she doubted he had slept in days. Even his presence through the Force had felt sluggish and stagnant, much as it did now. 

“Shouldn’t I be asking  _ you _ that?” she asked, arching her eyebrows. “Have you been sleeping at all, Revan?” 

He flinched, though she wasn’t sure if it was because she had accused him of poor self-care or because she had called him… She had called him Revan. 

Swallowing her guilt, Bastila glanced down to her fingers, awaiting his response. 

“No,” he replied, much to her surprise. “I’m afraid of what I’d see if I closed my eyes. I haven’t slept well since…” Revan laughed, an airy sound, pained. “Well. I slept well when  _ you _ were there.”

“I… I’m sorry,” Bastila said, lamely, and though Revan seemed about to respond, they were interrupted by the sound of the doors to the Council Chamber slamming open. 

Both of them jumped, tearing their eyes from each other to look at the woman who stood in the door, pale and severe looking Atris. The woman said nothing to them, her eyes taking a sharp turn over Revan, who stared back at her with a truly unnerving smile on his face, all teeth and challenge. 

Turning away, she waved her hand, and they both stood, Revan reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder, squeezing for a moment before walking toward the open doors, though he never once looked at her. She watched him, amazed at the way the weariness had melted away, at how he walked like a man who was in perfectly in charge of a situation rather than a man who was avoiding sleep out of fear of what his dreams might bring. 

Following after him, Bastila found herself standing in front of the remaining members of the Jedi Council once more. Their faces were all familiar faces, faces she had once trusted, and somehow now felt personally betrayed by, something that made her feel even more guilty. Isn’t that what had caused her to Fall in the first place? Shouldn’t she trust them more? 

“Young Bastila…” Master Vandar greeted as his grey eyes slid over to Revan. “Master Revan.” 

_ Master _ Revan? Had that been a recent development? 

Bastila supposed one couldn’t save the Galaxy twice without being granted that rank. 

“We bring you here before us today to ask of you one more favor,” Master Vandar, small and grim, breathed a deep sigh. “The Sith have retreated to Korriban, however, we fear they are trying to rally behind a new leader. It is doubtful they will be as powerful as either Malak or…” His eyes strayed toward Revan gain.

“It’s alright, Master Vandar, we can address the rancor in the room,” Revan said with a shrug, his arms crossed over his chest. “Or me. You doubt they’ll be as powerful as me.” 

He always spoke so freely in front of them, had since she met him when he had no idea of his own legacy, and wondered if he had always been this way. How recent was this development? Had Revan always been Revan? Or had he been someone else once? 

Vrook sighed. “The point is that you need to take responsibility for the remnants of your Empire and clear out Korriban so the Republic can place an outpost in Dreshdae and monitor any activity on the planet’s surface.” Vrook’s eyes suddenly fell to Bastila, and she felt herself pulled into the conversation. “You must make up for your mistakes. The _ both _ of you.” 

She could feel Revan’s annoyance suddenly flare through their bond, but beside her, his face remained completely neutral. “Very well,” Revan said, bowing. “Are you going to give us ground support, or do we have to fight the entire Sith Academy on our own?” 

“You will be coordinating with the Republic,” Master Vandar said. “Carth Onasi will accompany you.” 

“Carth?” Revan asked. “Well at least it’s a familiar face. When are we leaving? From this port?” Revan stood tall, proud, his back straight as she had ever seen it. It was easy to see what Revan really was in moments like these; competent, powerful, a commander of men. “Who are we deferring to in the chain of command?” 

“You, Master Revan, are the commander of this operation.Those decisions are yours to make,” Vrook said, looking as though the words tasted bitter in his mouth, making Bastila wonder who had decided to give Revan control of the fleet meant to assault Korriban. “The Republic has decided to put you in charge, considering your past successes. They believe your expertise is required to properly route the threat.” 

Bastila could feel Revan’s shock, followed by an undercurrent of fear, and this time… This time it was on his face, as well, plain as the suns Tatooine in the sky. He looked a shade paler, remarkable for a man who was already so very pale in the first place. “Me?” He asked. “Are they absolutely certain about that? Don’t they know that I… That…” Recognition flashed across his features. “You didn’t tell them. They don’t know what you did.” 

“It’s Jedi business,” said Master Vrook.“We didn’t tell them because your abilities remain unchanged in spite of--”

“Did you even consider what happens if someone recognizes me? If I can’t recognize them back? Need I remind you that I have no idea who I am, who  _ Revan even was _ , and that you put me in charge because… Because what? Because I helped the Republic…”

“You were the Supreme Commander of the Republic Military,” Atris said, interrupting him, voice as high and as cold as it always was, even toward Bastila now. 

Revan, who had clearly not known this information, pressed his hand to his head and opened and closed his mouth several times. Bastila, almost without thinking, reached out to him and let him brace his hands on her shoulder. His emotions were roiling wildly, so she pushed her own sympathy and understanding toward him, sharpened with an undercurrent of white hot anger.

It seemed to ground him, and he took a deep breath. 

“I had no idea,” he said, his voice sounding almost hollow. “Tell the Republic I’ll help them. I just need… I need a few days to prepare. Tell them they can contact me through Carth. I’m most comfortable dealing with him.” 

“We will relay the message,” Master Vandar said, nodding his head. “Go, prepare yourself. If we need you, we will bid you to return.” 

Without bowing or saying another word to the Council, Revan spun on his heel, walking away in a few long strides. Bastila, glancing back over her shoulder at the Council only briefly, hurried after him, finding him pacing in the lobby as he waited for her, eyes snapping upward when he sensed the immediacy of her presence. 

“Bastila,” Revan said in a rough, angry voice. “They didn’t tell anyone. How many people in the Order even know?” 

She watched as he sunk back into the seat he’d claimed before, head bowed forward, dark hair hanging into his face. “You? Bindo? The Council? Juhani? They all think I just… came back. They’re covering it up. They’re... “

His words choked off and he shook his head fiercely, her heart constricting in her chest at the sight of this strong, proud man reduced to a shaking mess. She wished she could help him, sincerely, but Bastila wasn’t good with people. 

She didn’t know what to say, so she just watched, her heart aching with no way to express how she felt. 

“Did you know me, before? Even tangentially? Did anyone that I can speak to? Someone who will tell me what I was like before… Before.” 

“Most of the people who knew you well joined with the Force during the War, disappeared afterward, or joined your Empire,” Bastila admitted. “The only person who returned to be held accountable for what she’d done during the War was a general who was exiled as recompense.” 

He froze at the words, and then began to laugh softly. “Meetra. Meetra… Surik.”

Bastila blinked at him. “You… remember?”

“Just the name, and only because Master Dorak mentioned her once. Her face…” He shook his head. “Who she was to me. A… a good friend. Like a sister. I remember the emotions but nothing of the specifics.”Revan seemed to gulp in a few breaths, then shakily pushed himself to his feet. “It seems I have some research to do.”

For a moment, he stared at her, his expression significant… Sad. 

“If… If you need me, Bastila, I’ll be in the Archives.” 

He didn’t wait for her to respond, standing up and walking away, his shoulders hunched. 


End file.
